Tristifical
by The Bad Joke
Summary: Gilbert, on the other hand, forces himself to wake up and get out of bed every day to sit on the cold and infertile ground. And stare at a wall.


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**Tristifical  
**_because you could never make me happy_

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Every day, he finds a spot on the ground, lonely enough that grass does not dare to grow there, and sits. At this time of day - late afternoon, with the stoic mood of winter invading the air - most people pull their blinds and curtains shut to hide from the outside world until the morning hours. In the meantime, maybe they will watch some television, read a book, or make small conversation with immediate family. Simple things like that. Gilbert, on the other hand, forces himself to wake up and get out of bed every day to sit on the cold and infertile ground.

And stare at a wall.

Every single day at half past four, he sits here and stares at a wall that puts his heart in danger of shriveling up and, quite possibly, dying. A wall does this to him. Who knew something so simple in thought could inflict so much damage on someone? And not just him, thousands of other people. Thousands of other people hurt when they see or even think about this wall. Thousands hate it as much as he does. Thousands would gladly tear it down. Hundreds, however, will die before they even get the chance.

It is so provoking, too. A twelve foot tall concrete wall is the only thing separating himself and his brother. It is silly, but sometimes he wishes he could walk through walls. Other times he wishes he had the ability to jump over the Wall. However, he can unfortunately do neither of these things. Just walking here strips more energy from him than it should. Every step is a challenge. By the time he is out of the door, his body wants to turn back around and collapse into bed once more. Just for another hour. Maybe more.

He is so tired. He is so tired, but he is so desperate to see his brother again. He does not want to miss the day when the Wall will finally crack or break or collapse. He wants to be the first one to cross the border the Wall had once made. He wants to be the one to approach his brother first, so he can tease him and tell him what a slow-poke he is. He wants to be the first one who can tell West, _I missed you so much_, and give him a hug and never let go.

Why did he let go in the first place? Why did they have to be separated? He knows the answer to both of these questions, but fuck, he doesn't want politics. He wants to go back in time and hold onto West so tightly that Ivan and all of his cooing would not be enough to make him let go.

Why did he let go?

Why?

_Why?_

Will he die before he ever gets to see his brother again? He asks himself this every waking hour of the day. He is going to die soon. It must be a feeling that you get when you're dying or something, because he just knows. But fuck, he does not want to accept it. Denial. That's supposedly one of the stages you enter before you die. This discovery just pisses him off. He then learned that another stage of dying is anger. That just pisses him off even more. Is another stage of dying being extra pissed off? If it is, then fuck, he's going to be gone sooner than he ever expected.

He checks his wristwatch. 6:09. He should have left about half an hour ago. It's already getting too dark to see. Hastily, he forces himself to stand up. He swears, every bone in his body cracks and a mixed feeling of pain and relief floods his muscles. He just presses his lips together and grunts, as if the vibration of sound will somehow put his body at an ultimate ease. But of course it doesn't. By the time he is nearly home - _he can't truly call this place home_ - it is so dark that he has to take baby steps to make sure he doesn't trip and fall. Knowing his fucking fantastic luck, he will most likely trip over a sleeping turtle and knock his head against a pebble and die. That will be the unfortunate end of Gilbert Beilschmidt. Millions will mourn his untimely death. It will be a sad day.

It takes him a few more moments than it should to realize that the front door is open. The house is quieter than usual as he walks through the living room, past the kitchen, and into his designated room. He lets his body ungracefully plop onto the unmade bed. Sleep threatens to take him over so quickly that he is barely able to realize the sound of his door opening. He does not need to greet the figure that has entered the room; he already knows who it is. It is the same person every single time. No new visitors, just Ivan Braginski.

"What do you want?"

The other man is by his side immediately. He feels arms engulf his shrinking frame. He does not know whether what Ivan is doing can be classified as a hug or some sort of death trap. Either way, he is holding him so tightly that he feels like he might just shrivel up and disappear, just like the festering grass by the spot he always sits at to stare at a wall. He imagines himself disappearing. _So simple._ Ivan's hold on him gets even tighter. _Just like that._

"You took a longer time coming home today than usual," he says in a calm, hushed voice. "I was starting to get worried. I thought maybe you finally died on me."

_You would like that, wouldn't you?_

"Well, I'm here and I'm fine. Now let go."

But Ivan Braginski doesn't. Ivan Braginski is more powerful than Gilbert, and he knows it. Ivan Braginski can do whatever he so desires because this is his home and the man in his clutches is, more or less, his property. And, as property, he is at Ivan Braginski's ultimate disposal. This is just the way Gilbert sees his position, though. Ivan's point of view on him might be considerably different, or worse. Maybe Ivan sees him as a stuffed toy, or something, because he's holding him very tightly right now, like he is one. If he really was one, his stuffing would be popping out of the seams right about now.

"Were you visiting that wall again?" he asks as if he is innocent, but Gilbert can hear the venom hiding within his voice. "Waiting for your brother?"

"Fuck off."

This is enough to set Ivan Braginski off.

His scalp screams as a clump of his hair is pulled back and twisted in an awkward motion. He feels Ivan's body pressing him down roughly against the mattress. It creaks in anger as Gilbert's frail body is pushed further into it. Ivan's other hand snatches his throat. He squeezes it enough to make him cough. Enough to make him understand that he should really hold his tongue. Know his place.

"You're too rebellious for your own good." The look in Ivan's eyes are intimidating. He can kill him right now if he wanted to. Every single moment up to this point he could have killed him. He has no clue why he has not yet. He is so _easy_. He has never been so weak, so exhausted, so vulnerable. Why not kill him?

_Why won't you?_

Maybe because killing him will be like killing a bug. It will be _too_ easy, _too_ simple. Too easy and simple that the entertainment value it will provide is nonexistent. Is that what Ivan wants? Entertainment? Does he want to sustain his body as long as possible, to suck out every last ounce of life in him, for his entertainment? The possibility doesn't seem unlikely. He would call him cruel, but when has Ivan been anything but? Hell, if their roles were reversed, he would probably do the same thing to him.

He hates this man so much. He is too busy thinking of ways to get back at him that he doesn't recall that he is being choked. The realization only hits him when Ivan's grasp on him becomes tighter. A sound that could be classified as a pathetic whine squeezes past his dry lips. His abuser must like this - _entertainment entertainment entertainment_ _entertainment_ - because soon it's becoming harder for Gilbert to breathe. He begins to panic, kicking his legs around wildly. He has to remind himself that Ivan will not kill him, but this reassuring thought is replaced by desperate ones, like _why isn't he letting go? Am I going to die? I can't die. I need to see West one more time. Just one more time. Please. Please. _

After what feels like a hundred years, Ivan lets go. Gilbert's body moves in uncontrollable spasms as it tries to reintroduce sweet oxygen to his lungs and brain. He is shaking so hard that he fears his skin will peel off, leaving him with a layer of bloody muscle. The thought is enough to make him puke. And he does. Tears and snot run down his face. His head, his neck, his stomach, his heart, and his everything else hurts. He is whimpering and babbling quietly to himself when it finally registers.

Ivan is watching him. He feels even more sick knowing Ivan is seeing him like this. The show Gilbert is putting on for him is both laughable and pathetic. He wonders how proud Ivan feels of himself right now, knowing he was the one to cause this scene in front of him. Oh God, he feels so sick. For the briefest moment, he wants to die. But that would be hypocritical. Why want something he has been trying so hard to prevent?

Through his tears, Gilbert shoots the other man a look of anger and sadness and self-pity and pain, all wrapped up into one.

_Are you happy now?_

He stares at Ivan until finally his consciousness fades. Within seconds he is eagerly welcomed by the sweet embrace of sleep. Like this, everything feels okay. No one can hurt him here. He is untouchable. He is invincible. He wishes he could always feel like this. He has been so fragile for so long. Sleep takes him back to the days before guns replaced swords and tanks replaced horses. He dreams of his great empire, his flag waving proudly in the wind, little West and even Old Man Fritz. He feels full with love, adoration, and pride until his dreams are taken away from him.

He wakes up exhausted.

He is surprised to notice how he is wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, the feeling of snot and puke absent from his body. Lifting the many layers of blankets, he sees that he is wearing clean clothing. _The bastard dressed me_, he thinks absentmindedly. He tears the blankets away from his body, where they gather limply on the bed in a tangled bundle. As soon as his feet settle on the floor, he feels lightheaded. He is afraid that he might just puke again. Regardless, he forces himself to stand up. When he opens the door, he is met by a surprised set of eyes.

"I didn't think you would be getting out of bed at all today."

Hearing Ivan's voice is enough to make him crawl back into bed. He doesn't say this, of course. Not after yesterday. He tries to squeeze past Ivan, but he gives him a gesture to sit down. Gilbert takes a seat on the bed without question. He waits for the other to say something. Eventually, he does.

"Planning on visiting that wall again today?" The look on Ivan's face suggests that he should do the exact opposite of this. Like he actually cares what Gilbert is doing on a daily basis. Like he has utmost and utter control over him - which he can't completely disagree with. Still, it makes him sick.

_Of course, you idiot. I sit in front of that stupid wall every day. Why is today any different?_

Instead of spilling out rash words that might result in another strangling-session, he nods. Is this what Ivan wants? For Gilbert to shut up and sit down and do what he is told? Is this the goal he has set out for Gilbert, besides entertainment? He knows he is right in his speculations and it makes him sick.

"It may never come down."

_It can't stay up forever. Nothing lasts forever. You won't last forever either. _

He just looks at him to let him know he's listening. It is taking all that he is - which isn't much - not to say something stupid. To lash out on Ivan for intimidating him. Because that is exactly what Ivan is doing. Intimidating him. That's how he ended up being strangled yesterday. Because Ivan intimidated him and Gilbert didn't know any other way to react other than using cruel words. He just wants a reaction out of him. Entertainment. Entertainment? Why is he possessed by this idea?

"Correction: you may die before it falls."

No, he can not stay silent anymore. It's too much for him to stay quiet and obedient and not say, "What's your point? Why are you telling me shit I already fucking know? Unlike you, I'm not a complete dumbass, so I don't need information spoon-fed to me." It is silent for a few seconds. Silence threatens far too many things that he almost wills himself to keep talking, but really, is there anything else to be said? Nothing he says will make anything better - just worse.

He stands up too quickly for his state of health - _don't trip, don't fall, not in front of him_ - and heads for the door. Just as he thinks he has cleared it, he feels Ivan's hand snatch his arm. His heart plops into his stomach to hide for however long is necessary.

"I can kill you," he warns.

Gilbert reclaims his arm and resumes walking. Before he is too far away, he says, almost sadly, "But you won't."

He waits for Ivan to turn around and grab him by the throat, shout a thousand angry curses at him in Russian, and strangle him until he is nothing but a blabbering mass all over again. He waits for Ivan to throw him to the floor and slam his fists into him until he is bloody and twitching. He waits for Ivan to break a vodka bottle against his head and use the glass to etch terrible words into his skin. He waits for Ivan to tie him up, hold him down, make him swallow what little is left of his pride and cry. He waits, he waits, he waits,_ he waits_. But nothing happens.

Maybe he really is invincible.

He takes his long walk to the Wall and sits down in his usual spot. He stares at it, and for once, he doesn't think. He doesn't think about how much he hates this wall or when it might come crashing down. He doesn't even think about his brother. He just stares and lets the cold air violate his skin. Maybe it's because he is afraid of what Ivan might do to him when he gets back. Maybe it's because he really _isn't_ afraid of what Ivan might do to him when he gets back. He really must be dying. If he doesn't care about what terrible things Ivan will do to him, he really must be dying. For once, the thought of dying does not depress him or make him angry.

He watches his breath turn into a white mist and then disappear into nothingness. Again and again.

Not including his dreams, this is the calmest he has felt for a long time. For once, it feels alright to be alive and breathing. Even if it is only for a little while longer, he will take in every moment he has left on this bipolar world, whether in bliss or pain, and cherish it. Even if he is doomed to spend the rest of it with Ivan Braginski. Even if he will never know what Ivan gets out of torturing him. Even if he never gets to see his brother again. This last thought is painful, but he will have to bear it. There is nothing much he can do about it.

He continues to observe his breath. _While you still have some to spare_, he tells himself. Breathe, mist, disappear. Breathe, mist, disappear. Before he knows it, the sun is being replaced by the moon. He really should have left hours ago. His bones whine when he stands up. He stares at the journey ahead of him. He really does not want to go back, and it's not because of what Ivan might do to him when he gets back. He just bluntly doesn't want to go. But he must. There is no where else to go. This is something else he forces himself to accept.

He looks back at the Wall. He wonders if his brother is on the other side, waiting for him patiently, or just about to walk back home for the day, just like he is. And then he decides to try something he has never tried before. As loud as he can, he yells out a _Hey! _that is so powerful that all of Europe just might hear it. He waits a couple of fleeting seconds for a response of any sort. He tells himself that this is his last act of desperation. If there is no answer, then he will die by Ivan's hands. He waits. And he waits. And then he waits some more. Each second makes the next beat of his heart ring out even louder than the last.

He hears nothing.

That's it, then. As soon as his boot touches the ground in his first step, he lets out a low gasp of defeat. _Accept it._ He takes another step. _Accept it._ And another. _There's just you and him now._ On his fifth step his face is already moist with salty, warm tears. He lets out a pained sound, like that of a wounded animal trying to escape its incoming enemy. He is walking faster now and he is overwhelmed with sobs and hiccups when he hears it. His answer.

The sound that he hears is louder than thunder. The sound is similar to that of the boom of a lake as the ice cracks. Or that of the falling of some aged building. Then it clicks. Disbelief fills his heart as he looks back. There are voices. The sound erupts for a second time, and then a third. When it happens for a fourth time, he notices a change in the Wall.

West.

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So, yeah, this story just sort of happened. It started off as Gilbert merely musing to himself, but then turned into this. This is the second time I did not intend to include Ivan in one of my fanfictions, but shit happened and he popped up again. I don't understand how my mind works. As I ponder, feel free to leave a review. Or you can just lurk. Don't worry I do it all the time, too.

But yeah, that Gerita fanfiction, it's definitely coming along. I'm only half lying.


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